


the cold air

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkwardness, Cersei Wins AU, F/M, Future Fic, Love Confessions, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:44:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: You may be the only romantic soul left in Winterfell, Lady Stark had once said to him after he’d stared a little too long at… her.Didn’t you used to dream of knights,he’d asked, face blazing with embarrassment. It had been a cruel question spoken in haste and with little forethought. And still Lady Stark had only arched an eyebrow and replied,I found her, Ser Jaime.





	the cold air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



The North is still cold though the maesters in Old Town claim winter has ended—all heard second hand, of course, as no maester dares send message to Winterfell now. Jaime tries to recall what it had been like the last time he was up here, back in late autumn, and the Stark family healthy and whole and, by all accounts, happy. Happy enough anyway. Jaime doesn’t believe there’s a family in Westeros that is truly happy. But the North is no longer a part of Westeros, so perhaps things can be different. Maybe families can be happy. Remarkably happy. Still, as Jaime chafes his bicep, standing on the ramparts of Winterfell, his dented, tarnished gold hand hanging at his side, he thinks maybe the North will always be cold.

It’s a desolate shithole is what it is, Winterfell. Still. And forever. Happy families or no.

But at least it’s a _frozen_ shithole. Not like King’s Landing where it smells of piss and feces on every street, nor even Casterly Rock where they try to pretend it doesn’t smell like piss and feces even though it really, really does. Here, the ice and snow suppresses everything—sound, smell, feel. All is static, held tight. Quiet, close.

Sound, like the sound of boots on wood, even if those boots belong to a woman taller than he is and more than capable of beating him in a fight and in every other way that matters, even they are smothered.

What ice and snow doesn’t do, however, is mute colors. Her eyes are brighter than they ever were on the King’s Road and her armor gleams more brilliantly despite the weakness of the Northern sun. He doesn’t dare acknowledge that her hair is more flaxen than he remembers, but the thought does cross his mind for the barest of moments.

 _You may be the only romantic soul left in Winterfell_ , Lady Stark had once said to him after he’d stared a little too long at… her.

 _Didn’t you used to dream of knights,_ he’d asked, face blazing with embarrassment. It had been a cruel question spoken in haste and with little forethought. And still Lady Stark had only arched an eyebrow and replied, _I found her, Ser Jaime_.

There’d been something of the girl left in her then. It was after the formal declaration of war from Cersei, but before the armistice and the Wall—the new Wall, more metaphorical than real, a divide created on parchment soaked with ink and bloody death that only said no Westerosi citizen nor Northern rebel may cross _this_ arbitrary line. No magic save time and nature has enchanted its boundaries. The land there has already become a tangle of wildwood and thatches of thorn-vined blackberry bushes. Without human intervention, one day it may well become difficult to pass between two newly carved realms.

“Brienne,” he says, finally acknowledging the woman he can allow himself to love. Here. Now. He can do that. He can have that. He can do that. Love. With a thousand miles of distance, he feels safe to do anything. “Always nice of you to stop by.”

She squints at him, frowning. A line carves itself between her eyebrows. “I have patrol,” she says, dubious. “You know this.”

“And yet,” he says, something akin to joy flaring in his chest. An abominable feeling really. Joy is dangerous. Joy can be taken away. Joy is a weapon to be used upon you by the people you care about the most. “Here you are. Stopping by.”

“I have patrol,” she insists, like anyone else wouldn’t have muttered a greeting at best before going about their business. Truly, there is nothing worth patrolling anymore, except perhaps for the occasional wolf that finds its lucky way to Winterfell’s gates from whence it would no doubt become the newest member of Lady Stark’s pack, trained by her hand to hunt and howl at all hours of the night. “And I have every right to be here. You, on the other hand, were due to meet with the rest of Lady Stark’s small council approximately a quarter of an hour ago.”

“That’s impossible. Small council meetings aren’t until…”

“A quarter of an hour ago.” Brienne very nearly scoffs at him, though there is also a glimmer of something in her eyes. It might be sympathy. He’d prefer anything to that.

“That—” Actually is true. He frowns. His nails drag thin, shivering lines across the back of his neck. “I completely forgot.” Cersei’s small council meetings were always… well, that doesn’t matter now, does it? “Is she very angry with me?”

“I don’t believe so,” Brienne answers slow and treacly with consideration, her tone softening. There’s an unspoken _something else_ in her voice as well, something he can’t analyze too closely simply because he doesn’t know how. Things are so very different now and changing all the time.

He never truly expected to be on the same side with her, not really. He’d thought… he’s not sure what he’d thought. But having a chance to really do something good and right and maybe a little selfish? That’s not where he’d thought his life would end up.

The fact that he’s not already so much fertilizer for the field of some battle or other is a surprise to him every day. The fact that Brienne sees him as more than that is merely an additional gift. If only…

“Perhaps she will indulge me a few more moments, then,” he says, uncharacteristic. He’s grown respectable, responsible. He doesn’t keep Lady Stark waiting and he doesn’t act without forethought.

Perhaps his mind dwells too much on Cersei, on family, on everything he misses about them both, a tangled conflict of right and wrong and good and bad waging constant war in his mind. “Brienne…”

She shifts in response, her body straightening, that impenetrable armor of hers clicking as the plates slide against one another. Her sword catches a glint from the sun and holds it. Lady Stark would see it melted down, returned to its original state, or as near to it as can be; Brienne has declined. Even Jaime sometimes would prefer to rid the world of the reminder of what it is. But Brienne’s resolve remains firm and true.

A Lannister sword can protect a Stark girl.

And perhaps Jaime Lannister can allow himself to love more than Cersei.

Why he chooses today of all days…

No puff of mist issues from between Brienne’s lips as she waits for him to continue, not unlike the breath Jaime holds, too. And he wants to speak truly—knights in stories are always so capable at talking, aren’t they? And not just the bitter, black words Jaime has for most occasions these days—but it’s so very hard. “Have I ever told you…”

There is a dreadful pause.

“What is it, Jaime?” she asks when he can’t finish the thought. There are a great many things he’s never told her, isn’t there?

He forces a smile and steps past her, clapping his hand on her cold, armored shoulder. He can’t help it. “I do so like it when you call me Jaime.”

Sighing, Brienne turns and grabs him by the wrist of his golden hand. No one dares touch it. Not even Cersei really acknowledged it. It therefore comes as a bit of a shock when she does. He can’t feel it, not really, he’s sure of that. And yet a thrill of warmth blooms inside of him regardless. “And _I_ like it when you speak plainly.”

“I always speak plainly.” He doesn’t shrug her off, though perhaps he should.

“You don’t.” And something like disappointment settles on her features. Or hurt. She glances quickly toward the stairs nearby. No doubt she’s weighing up how proper it is that she is delaying Lady Stark’s meeting. And, for once, she must decide it is worthwhile because she keeps hold of him. “Though you used to.”

There is a question here and Jaime could ignore it if he wanted to. It’s so delicately phrased, after all, and Brienne would not ask more boldly. But… 

“Perhaps I should speak plainly then,” Brienne says when he doesn’t speak quickly enough. “Have I offended you?”

Or perhaps he’d been wrong about her. Clearly she has no problem with boldness today.

Damn this impossible woman.

He shakes his head. “Brienne, you could never offend me.” He swallows. His heart aches for having caused her to believe otherwise. Has he been so unintentionally cruel? Quite likely, he supposes. Cruelty runs deep in his family.

“Then what—?”

“I love you.” His heart stalls out and stutters back into motion, a cart pulled into motion by a skittish horse. But now that he’s said it, he can’t not keep going. “I’m _in_ love with you.”

Brienne’s mouth falls open and her cheeks grow even more pink than the chill air had made them. Mottled red, they are. Nothing anyone would think to write a story about, but endearing to Jaime all the same. He wants to reach for her, but he can’t. He _can’t_.

Oh, and then she pulls him toward her, stares at him with brazen concern, purses her lips together. “You—?”

He nods, blowing out a severe, staggering breath. He’s done it; it’s done. And all she can do is _look at him_ in response. Perhaps he should be more sympathetic though.

He can’t do much more than look at her, too. His throat closes around whatever other words he might have come up with. An apology is probably the first thing he should find. “I should probably get to that meeting.” He winces. That’s not what he wants to say at all. The meeting hardly matters. With such a small military force, there isn’t much for Jaime to do except suggest they recruit more soldiers and hope Cersei doesn’t break the armistice with her own dwindling forces.

There’s a chance they could win against her, but it’s not something Jaime can easily guarantee. They’ve lost so much and have little else to throw at Cersei. Without Daenerys Stormborn and Jon the Bastard…

Perhaps he should have admitted his feelings sooner.

They may have little enough time left as it is.

Brienne nods. “I’ll accompany you.” Her hands are protected by glove and gauntlet, but from the way she rubs them together, he thinks she must be nervous. Her gaze cuts to his briefly. “I… care for you, too, Jaime.” She sounds stunned, unsure. He wishes he could do something about that, but she’s never taken well to being told what to do—not unless it’s Lady Stark doing the telling anyway.

“Oh,” he replies. Heat flares across his own cheeks even though nothing has really changed with the admission. Jaime loves her. And she cares for him. He’s always known this. They probably would have killed each other or died with each other if that weren’t the case. So much of what they’ve been through has required trust and sympathy, rare qualities in Westeros.

“Let me—” But Jaime has no idea how to finish the thought. Bed her? Woo her with wine and dance and conversation? Spirit her off to the nearest weirwood tree and marry her? His brow furrows.

She reaches for him again. “Let’s carry on as we have,” she says, more certain than he. “You’ll go to this meeting. I’ll complete my patrol. We’ll share evening meal. We can…” She looks down at her feet and leaves the rest of her suggestion unvoiced and implied.

“I’ve been an idiot,” Jaime says.

That, at least, gets a smile out of Brienne, small and tempered though it might be by the circumstances they’ve so often found themselves in. “No more than I.”

He reaches for her hand, squeezing lightly before letting it go again.

“Not so different from our usual then, is it?”

“No,” she answers, prim and serious, but somehow pleased, too, “perhaps not.”

And even if the worst happened and they had no time left at all, Jaime could count himself happy, whole.

Complete.


End file.
